


the perfect cocktail

by litteraries (mysoulrunswithwolves)



Series: The Hundred-aching Woods [2]
Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, Winnie-the-Pooh - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, I don't even know anymore, M/M, this document was saved as 'just kill me now.docx', this has gotten out of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-14 23:58:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysoulrunswithwolves/pseuds/litteraries
Summary: The first time Lizzie sees her, she doesn’t know.





	

The first time Lizzie sees her, she doesn’t know.

Over the years, Lizzie has learned how to read people. She knows what kinds of drinks they’ll order, who they’ll end up going home with, what they’re drinking to forget, it’s all fairly easy once you know what to look for.

Lizzie has been working at London’s most prominent gay bar, _Femberly_ , since she finished college. Darcy had begged her to work for him, to come in and run the bar so that he didn’t have to. Lizzie still, five years later, doesn’t know why she said yes.

The first time she sees her, Lizzie has no idea that three hours from now her life is going to be drastically, irrevocably different.

She sits down at the bar and Lizzie, as per her habit, sizes her up in a single, assessing glance. Fitted leather jacket, loose blue shirt haphazardly tucked into a tight pair of ripped black jeans. Her hair is a beautiful sandy brown, falling in loose waves around her face and Lizzie, well, it’s her job to ask her what she’s drinking, isn’t it.

“What can I make for you?” Lizzie asks, pleased when it comes out smooth despite the sudden dryness of her throat when her eyes lock on a pair of warm, brown ones.

She hesitates, looks a bit startled by the question, before looking down at one of the menus on the bar. “I think I’ll take one of these?” She points at one of the options with a long, slender finger and gives Lizzie a hesitant look from under her lashes.

Lizzie leans over, perhaps a bit farther over than she _strictly_ has to, and looks at the drink she’s pointing to.

She smells like wildflowers.

“Yeah, coming right up,” Lizzie says, flashing her a smile and turning around, grabbing bottles and throwing together the martini Brown Eyes had asked for. Lizzie is glad that she’d convinced herself to shimmy into the tight blue dress that did great things for her subtle curves. It’s the dress that matches the cobalt blue streaks in her hair dark waves perfectly, and while it’s not the most appropriate clothing for a bartender, it is appropriate for the manager of said bar.

She turns around, drink in hand, and slides it to the waiting woman in front of her, resolutely ignoring the spark that flashes up her arm as their fingers brush in the exchange.

“Thanks,” she says, with a warm, broad smile. She takes a small sip, eyes widening as she swallows. “This is wonderful,” she says brightly.

“Thank you,” Lizzie says, leaning against the bar with a pleased smile. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Kanga,” she says, eyes glinting with something that looks a lot like excitement. “What’s yours, _sweetheart?_ ”

“Lizzie,” she replies, not bothering to suppress her smile. “I haven’t seen you around before,” she continues. It’s a slow night anyway, so she has some time to talk to Kanga and try and figure out what’s going on in those expressive brown eyes.

“I don’t get out much,” Kanga says, taking another sip of her drink.

Lizzie leans a bit closer, one arm resting on the bar, and she gets another whiff of wildflowers and crisp spring breezes. “Pity,” she says, pitching her voice just a bit lower, regarding Kanga from under her eyelashes.  

There’s a beat of surprised silence between them, Kanga’s eyes widening just slightly, before Kanga is leaning a bit closer. “I might start going out more, though, depending on how fun tonight ends up being.”

The smile that Kanga gives her as she takes another sip of her drink is downright sinful and Lizzie hasn’t been with anyone since—well, it doesn’t matter. But she doesn’t think she would mind being with Kanga.

“Regardless,” she flirts back, “I’m glad you decided to come out tonight.”

Kanga smiles, warm and bright. “Me too.”

***

It’s unfortunate, the way it happens.

It’s a quiet Sunday morning, and Lizzie is sitting in a small café with a truly excellent caramel macchiato and it isn’t _raining_ and even though she’s having coffee with Darcy—who is _unbelievably_ smug about his new boyfriend—it’s still a beautiful day.

“He’s so hot,” Darcy’s saying, his steaming mug of earl grey still cooling on the table. “Not to mention, a _fantastic_ lay.”

Lizzie rolls her eyes.

It’s not like Darcy gets this way with everyone he dates, but Darcy gets like this with _everyone he dates._ It’s like he jumps straight from like to love in about four seconds and Lizzie can’t stand it.

“Yes, but does he like you?” She asks snidely, raising a tastefully pierced eyebrow and taking a sip of her coffee. “That is, I understand, far more difficult of a task.”

Darcy shrugs in a gesture made to deflect. It would work on most people.

It hasn’t worked on Lizzie since college.

“He likes me,” Darcy says, and Lizzie sits up straighter as she realizes that he actually believes himself _what the fuck_.

“Um,” she begins, intent on digging deeper into the fascinating conundrum that is Darcy’s denial.

“How are things going with you and your boyfriend?” Darcy asks, cutting her off.

Lizzie narrows her eyes, but lets it drop. “Things are going fine, can’t complain.” She shrugs.

Darcy rolls his eyes.

“What,” Lizzie snaps. Across from her Darcy smiles smugly. She _hates it_ when Darcy gets smug. “I hate it when you’re smug.”

Darcy’s smile, if possible, gets wider. “You like him.”

“What the _fuck_.”

“You _do,”_ Darcy smiles, and there’s no stopping him now, Lizzie knows from years of experience.

“Yes, well.” She takes a sip of her macchiato and tries not to blush, left hand sweeping through her hair in an effort to center herself. She dislikes how easily Darcy can get under her skin.

Jane would say it’s because they’re perfect for each other and should just date.

Lizzie would say it’s because Darcy is an insufferable dick with too much time on his hands.

“At least he likes me back,” she finally says, managing with no small amount of effort, not to stick her tongue out at him.

“So, when do I get to meet this man who has managed to capture your affection?”

“Probably about the same time you can stop speaking like a nineteenth century prat.”

“Fuck, you’re such a bitch when you’re dating men. I forgot how annoying you are,” Darcy sighs and delicately sips at his tea, pinky extended.

Lizzie leans forward to hiss: “Listen, you cock-sucking motherfuc—” but she cuts off abruptly as George enters the shop through the front door behind Darcy. “Today’s your luck day,” she whispers instead, sitting back. “You get to meet my boyfriend after all.”

George spots Lizzie and beams, all white teeth and dark hair and sharp features. Lizzie gets a bit wet just looking at him, honestly.

“Good morning, darling,” he says, striding up to her and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“George, this is Darcy,” she says, managing to tear her eyes away from his arresting blue ones to gesture over at Darcy, only to find that when she does it’s to find Darcy staring at Wickham in absolute shock and horror.

“ _Wickham?”_ Darcy screeches. The bustle of the café comes to a roaring, thundering halt as everyone turns to watch whatever is happening in their little corner of the shop.

Lizzie glances between Darcy and George. “You two already know each other?”

“Wickham, what the ever-loving fuck,” Darcy says, considerably quieter. “We’ve been dating for two months. What the _actual fuck_.”

“ _Excuse me?”_ Lizzie hisses, twisting to look up at Wickham where he’s standing frozen between them. “George we’ve been dating for _four shitting months_.”

George Wickham looks remarkably calm for a man who has just inadvertently outed his infidelity to both of his partners. “This can be really fun, if we let it,” he says, a sly grin flitting across his face.

“Did you just suggest a _three-way_?” Darcy asks, horrified.

“You bisexual slut,” Lizzie gasps, still reeling from shock.  

Wickham shrugs. “You’re both super hot, like, it would be loads of fuckin’ fun, you get me?”

It only takes Lizzie and Darcy a split-second glance at one another before they’re standing up, in tandem, and dumping what remains of their drinks directly on top of Wickham’s head.

“Shall we, Darcy?” Lizzie asks cordially, stepping around Wickham.

“Yes, let us leave, Elizabeth. I don’t think this café suits my taste anymore.” Darcy links her arm through his own and together they turn their backs on Wickham.  Normally Lizzie would have an absolute fit over Darcy’s use of her full name, but it isn’t every day that your boyfriend is also dating your best friend, so she lets it slide.

“You know, your sister was telling me about this absolutely charming café across town. We shall have to check it out,” she says as they leave the café.

Neither one of them bothers to look back at Wickham.

***

It’s been two hours, and Kanga hasn’t moved from her spot at the bar, even though Lizzie has seen several people approach her with the offer to dance.

“You not a fan of dancing?” Lizzie asks, watching the pretty brunette Kanga just politely declined walk away.

Kanga swirls her drink in one hand, the tumbler hanging carelessly from her fingertips. Her nails are painted black, the color chipping away from the edges of her blunt nails. “I love dancing.” Her gaze flicks up, eyes dancing across Lizzie’s face, down what’s visible of her body behind the bar, before dragging her eyes back up to Lizzie’s.

A shiver works its way up her spine in the wake of Kanga’s eyes.

“I just don’t want to dance with anyone but _you_ right now.”

Lizzie’s knees suddenly feel a bit weak. “Oh,” she breathes. It’s hard for her to remember the almost timid woman who sat at her bar earlier tonight. She grabs a washcloth and wipes down the bar just for something to do with her hands.

Kanga smiles at her, lips parting slow and easy in a smooth glide of skin against teeth. “Yeah, oh.”

Lizzie’s fingers shake.

Lizzie flags down the other bartender on shift, which happens to be her youngest sister Kitty tonight, to watch her side of the bar. At the questioning glance she gets from Kitty, Lizzie says, “I just need to refresh my lipstick real quick.”

She leans over the bar, smiling coyly at Kanga. “I’ll be right back,” she says, rubbing her hands down the sides of her dress in a smoothing motion as she works her way around the bar and toward the bathroom.

The dim lighting of the bathroom casts everything in a dirty light, and Lizzie dully thinks that they should get the lighting fixed as she leans against the counter and tries to steady her breathing because it’s ridiculous that she’s this affected by a woman she’s only met three hours ago.

No matter how warm and soft her eyes are.

The hinges on the door squeak slightly as someone else walks into the bathroom. She looks up sharply and turns around when the sound of a bolt sliding home echoes through the bathroom like a gunshot.

Kanga stands with her back pressed against the door. “I’ll go, if you don’t want to.”

Lizzie pauses, licks her lips, feels her heartrate triple, before saying, “Don’t go.”

Kanga crosses the space between them in three determined strides and kisses her. It’s not what she expected, all teeth and tongue and a teasing grip around her waist, which, yeah, none of those are things that she’d ever thought she’d particularly like but  _wow_  does she  _really_ like them because she’s moaning into Kanga’s mouth and it’s echoing against the dingy tilework of the bar’s bathroom and she’s being pushed back to sit on the sink. Lizzie is preoccupied with Kanga’s lips, the way they tease apart her own, so it takes her a moment to register Kanga’s hands moving up her thighs—shit she’s glad she shaved this morning—so that she can step between her legs to spread her thighs as wide as they can go. She actually _moans_ at the sensation of Kanga’s blunt fingernails scraping across the buzzed side of her scalp before they tangle in her long brown curls. Lizzie works her hands under the hem of Kanga’s shirt, desperate to feel the soft skin under her fingers, and Kanga’s working her other hand underneath the hem of Lizzie’s dress and later—much fucking later—she’ll remember to be super embarrassed about the sound she makes when Kanga rubs her thumb against the lace of her underwear but she’s way too far gone and Kanga’s grinding the heel of her palm against her clit and she can’t think or talk or focus or anything and—

“Fuck, you’re wet,” Kanga groans into the base of her throat, and then bites down on her collarbone and deftly flicks her wrist and oh,  _oh_ , that’s definitely a finger and it’s definitely not enough because _fuck_ how did she forget how good this feels? “I’ve wanted to do this since you handed me that drink and I haven’t—”

Lizzie reaches out and rakes her nails down her back, hands sliding around Kanga’s narrow hips to unbutton her jeans and slide her hand smoothly down the front of Kanga’s pants, intent on giving as good as she’s getting. And it’s not enough, not really because  _holy fucking shit_  does she want to see all of her and taste her and maybe her mouth is watering and maybe that isn’t the standard physical reaction she’s supposed to be having. Then again, this is  _Kanga—_ the beautiful, doe-eyed, dangerous woman who’s been making eyes at her all night—and she thinks a little frantically that this isn’t what she was expecting from tonight but Lizzie can’t bring herself to care, really, because this is simultaneously everything and fucking  _nothing_  like what she’s been waiting for—

“You’re amazing,” she gasps. “So—so— _beautiful_ —” she cuts off, distracted by the sweet-sounding moan that slithers across the skin of her collarbones as she brushes a finger against Kanga’s clit, Kanga’s fingers stuttering momentarily as Lizzie quickly remembers what feels good, what rhythm to fall into and—

“ _Shit,”_ Lizzie hears herself hiss. “You feel _so good_.”

Kanga smiles into her sweat slick skin and pulls at the already-low neckline of her dress and she’s kneading her breasts with one hand and toying with her clit with the other and she wants to say something snarky about multitasking but Kanga closes her lips around her nipple and slides a second finger into her and she basically forgets  _everything_ other than the grazing sting of Kanga’s teeth and the insistent pulsing thud of her heartbeat—

“ _You’re perfect_ ,” Kanga whispers. Lizzie focuses on moving her fingers in a steady rhythm despite the persistent pooling of heat in her own stomach and the way her muscles are beginning to shake.

If someone would have told her that Kanga would be doing this to her in the dimly lit bathroom of a bar—that she manages, no less—she definitely would have laughed in their face and told them to go fuck themselves. The Kanga she met three hours ago was not this assertive, and maybe it was the perfectly balanced drinks Lizzie kept setting in front of her, or the playful teasing, but sometime between when she first sat down and now, Kanga has become an unpredictable force of nature and Lizzie _loves it._

Honestly, they should probably be talking about all of this because Lizzie knows, with absolute certainty, that she’s going to need to see Kanga again, but her brain chemistry is apparently susceptible to all kinds of illogical shit when Kanga is involved because her spine melts and her breath hitches and Kanga thrusts her fingers a little faster and sucks a mark into the underside of her breast and she’s teetering on the edge of something  _awesome_  and this isn’t the impersonal robotic hum of a vibrator in the lonely silence of her bedroom after a failed date or a busted party, no, this is faster and harder and better and—

Kanga shivers around her fingers as Lizzie kisses her through her orgasm, fingers slick as she tilts Kanga’s head to the side to kiss a trail of kisses down her neck, leaving marks as she goes.

And she’s so close.

“ _Kanga_ ,” she whispers.

“ _Lizzie_ ,” she replies, soft and plaintive and perfect and she snatches at Kanga’s jacket and yanks her face up towards hers and kisses her—

She comes with a cry.

Kanga drags her orgasm out with soothing swipes of her thumb and she whines, she pants, she trembles—

In the end, Lizzie can’t remember the last time she’s ever been so wrong about a person.

***

More often than not, by the time Lizzie makes it back to her quiet apartment in east end after work it’s three in the morning and her feet hurt.

Tonight is no exception, and she flicks on the lights and jumps as the newly-lit room reveals Darcy slumped over on her couch.

“Oi, arsehole,” she barks, not in the mood for Darcy’s melodramatic antics at this time of night. “Get out of my apartment.”

Darcy makes a token effort to straighten up. “You must have had a rough night at the bar.”

“Which you’d fucking know if you bothered to stop by at all,” Lizzie bites back, wanting nothing more than to shower and crawl into bed.

“I was busy.”

“What on earth could be more important than making sure the bar _you_ own doesn’t fucking _burn down_ ,” she gripes, shrugging off her raincoat and toeing out of her shoes.

“I have more important things to do.” He lifts his legs, making room for Lizzie to join him on the couch, before promptly lowering them back down to rest them in her lap.

“What, like pining after your sulky barista?”

“You don’t _understand_ , Lizzie,” Darcy moans, flinging his head back in a show of dramatics that would rival those of his horrifying aunt. “He’s just so _perfect_ I can’t stand it! And the sex, _Lord_ , Lizzie the _sex._ ”

Lizzie grimaces, ignoring the comment about the sex and choosing to address the safer part of that statement. “Just yesterday you ranted to me for _forty-five minutes_ about how he was a pretentious hipster that didn’t even need the glasses he wore.”

Darcy lifts his head to give her a spiteful glare. “Can’t you just let me vent?”

“No.” Lizzie holds up a hand, stopping Darcy’s whine of protest before it can find voice. “You’ve been venting to me for like two weeks now. Just go and talk to him again.”

“He’s just, such a _hipster_.”

“You _literally_ just said he was perfect.”

“He is, I just have to hype myself up to look past the flannel,” Darcy sighs. “I’m going to ask him out again.”

Lizzie just raises an eyebrow at him. The eyebrow with the artfully placed bar piercing so that it catches the low lighting for maximum effect.

“I will!” Darcy pouts at her. “Tomorrow.”

Lizzie rolls her eyes, scoffing, before noticing the way Darcy’s biting his lip between his teeth nervously, a tell she learned back when they were in college.

“What,” she begins, incredulity in her voice. “Do you need me to come _with_ you?”

Darcy _immediately_ brightens. “That would be _lovely,_ Elizabeth.”

“Don’t call me Elizabeth.”

“I’ll see you bright and early for coffee later this morning,” Darcy says, already halfway out the door.

“Wait, _what?”_

Darcy scampers out the door before Lizzie can so much as think about chasing after him.

 

 _If I see u b4 noon ur ded to me,_ she sends, just as she’s finally crawling into bed.

Darcy sends back a grey ghost emoji, and if it was possible to strangle a person via text he would already be dead.

Lizzie settles for a simple _I hate you_ , which is far less satisfying, but does manage to convey the same general feeling, she thinks.

***

 _Hey E can I ask u a question?_ Lizzie texts Eeyore, in a moment of weakness.

 _Probably_ , he replies.

 _Ugh u’ve been spending too much time wit darcy,_ she sends, hesitating just a moment before she adds: _what do u kno abt Kanga?_

 _Darcy says ‘go fuck urself’ and Kanga is hella cool._ At Eeyore’s reply, Lizzie makes a face. Of _course_ Darcy’s with him. Ever since he found out Eeyore is just as in love with him as he is, it’s been impossible to get one without the other.

_Ugh ofc he’s there the prick_

_Ya hes like, doing the thing where he stuffs like five oreos together n eats them in one bite,_ Eeyore replies, and Lizzie doesn’t think she’s imagining the disgust in his tone.

_Darcy’s metabolism is liek, half the reason why I stopped going to church_

_AMEN,_ Eeyore texts back, not two seconds later. _Anyway ya, kanga is rad n super chill. U’d like her I think_

The problem is less about her liking Kanga, and more about possibly liking her _too_ much for a bathroom hookup at a gay bar, that she runs and Darcy owns.

But she’s gotten a taste, and damn it if she doesn’t crave more.

 

If Lizzie begins to frequent Hundred-acre Wood more often than she ever has before, it’s only because it’s about damn time she spends more time with Eeyore, and not because she’s hoping to see Kanga.

At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself.

***

“If you think I’m actually going to go in and watch you ineptly flirt with a hipster barista you’ve already fucked twice the you’re out of your fucking mind.” Lizzie says, tying off the end of her braid and adjusting her reflective Ray Bans perched on her nose. She likes them because they unnerve Darcy with the added bonus of making her look fly as hell.

“Lizzie,” Darcy whines, _whines_ at her, as they approach the disgustingly charming storefront of Hundred-acre Wood. It’s all wide, open windows and an arched wood door with blooming ivy crawling across the front of the brick façade and Lizzie pulls her distressed leather jacket tighter around her in defiance of the sheer _aesthetic_ that this place screams.

“No,” she says, resolute. “I’ll wait out here for you, but there is nothing you could do to convince me to walk in there with you.” She pulls open the door of the shop and shoves Darcy in before he can protest, shutting the door firmly behind him.

She watches through the window for a moment—just long enough to watch as Darcy manages to trip over nothing as he approaches the front counter—before sitting down at one of the small tables clustered in front of the store.

 _Oh n get me an americano,_ she shoots off to Darcy, feeling that it’s only fair since she dragged herself out of bed three hours earlier than she’d planned to this morning just so she could metaphorically hold his hand as he stumbled through another conversation with Eeyore.

A light breeze winds its way past her, tugging a few curls loose from her braid, and she closes her eyes and leans her head back slightly, enjoying the brief heat of afternoon sun against her skin.

“Rue, I won’t ask again,” a familiar voice says, growing stronger as the speaker moves in her direction.

“Mama, do I _have_ to?” a child pleads, sounding very put out about something.

“Yes,” the warm voice is much closer now. She hears footsteps. “If you do as you’re told we’ll do something fun tonight, just the two of us.”

The footsteps have slowed to a stop right in front of her, and Lizzie opens her eyes to put thoughts of recognizing that voice to rest because it couldn’t possibly be—

“Kanga?” she squeaks in surprise and _wow_ is she glad Darcy isn’t here to see her flustered reaction to seeing her bar-bathroom hookup in the middle of a London street.

Kanga turns to face her and Lizzie immediately notes the lack of smoky makeup, ripped jeans, and tousled hair. Instead, the Kanga in front of her is wearing worn jeans, a loose t-shirt, and her long sandy waves are pulled back into a soft bun. Perhaps the biggest shock of all, however, is the child clinging to her arm.

“Lizzie?” Kanga asks incredulously, looking for all the world like this was the last thing she expected to have happen to her today.

“Uh, hi,” Lizzie manages, removing her sunglasses and sitting up straighter in her seat.

“What are you doing here?” Kanga asks, looking a bit panicked.

“I’m here as moral support.” She gestures to the shop behind her. “My friend is trying to ask out this hot barista he met here and I’m here to support him.”

Kanga looks perplexed. “But, you're alone?”

“Oh, he’s already inside, talking to said sulky barista.”

Kanga looks, if possible, even more confused. At her side, the child—Lizzie figures this must be the Rue Kanga was talking to as she walked up—is crouched down and tracing his finger through the groves in the cobblestone sidewalk. “Then shouldn’t you also be inside, for moral support?”

“I never said I was a good friend,” Lizzie says with a smirk. “But what about you?” she asks. “I didn’t expect to see you in this part of town.”

“She works here!” Rue helpfully interjects, apparently bored with the cobblestones and now staring at Lizzie in curiosity. He’s got the same sandy brown hair as Kanga, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

Lizzie looks between Rue and Kanga, one eyebrow raised, hardly believing her luck. “You work here too?”

Kanga nods and Lizzie can’t believe it. “Darcy is going to freak the fuck out,” she laughs.

Kanga quickly slaps both hands over Rue’s ears. “Lizzie, _language.”_

 _“_ Oh fuck—shit—I’m sorry,” Lizzie says frantically, forgetting about the child right in front of her. “Sorry, Kanga.”

Kanga frowns at her with a Disappointed Mom™ stare fierce enough to rival that of her own mother’s, a feat she never thought she’d see in this life. Her mother has brought Darcy to heel with just a single glare, and Lizzie suddenly wants to know how quickly Kanga could have him cowering. It could be useful to have a girlfriend that could—

Wait.

What.

Lizzie takes a breath, and tries again. “Please, forgive my language.”

The tiny human in front of her giggles, hitches up the strap of his overalls that’s slipping down his shoulder, and says, “’S okay. I’ve heard _way_ worse from Uncle Tigger, but I promised him I wouldn’t tell mama.”

Lizzie glances up at Kanga, who is looking more harassed by the minute as she wipes a palm down her face in exasperation.  She can’t be sure, but it sounds like Kanga mutters _“I’m going to kill him,”_ under her breath.

“My name is Rupert, what’s yours?” He chirps. Lizzie opens her mouth to reply but he cuts her off before she can actually say anything. “Most people just call me Rue, though. Mamma says ’s ‘cause Rupert is too hard so, call me Rue.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you Rue,” Lizzie says, taking his small hand and shaking it very seriously. “I’m Lizzie.”

“And I’m going to be late,” Kanga says, edging toward the door of Hundred-acre Wood.

Lizzie jumps up and, very smoothly, opens the door for both Kanga and Rue before following them inside, only to bump into Kanga, who has frozen in the doorway with her hands firmly fixed around Rue’s eyes as he struggles to see.

Lizzie glances around in confusion for a second before seeing something that she wishes she could unsee.

Eeyore is sitting on the edge of the counter, his legs wrapped tightly around Darcy’s waist, hands tangled up in Darcy’s hair, doing a rather good impression of a Koala hugging a tree.

If Koalas were flannel-wearing, ponytail-sporting, sulky hipster baristas that made out with British gentlemen in the middle of public spaces.

Lizzie figures she probably isn’t going to get that Americano.

Next to her, Kanga is still frozen in apparent shock, and Darcy and Eeyore haven’t bothered to notice them yet, so Lizzie reaches down and covers Rue’s ears with her hands—ignoring the tingle that rushes up her arms as her hands brush against Kanga’s—and says: “Darcy what the ever-loving fuck are you doing.”

Darcy jumps away from Eeyore so fast it’s like he’s been _burned_ , and if the shade of red he’s turning is any indication, he probably has been burned. Lizzie can count on one hand the number of times he’s blushed this bad, and she files this moment away for future blackmail material.

At the same moment, Rue finally manages to slither his way out of both Lizzie and Kanga’s grasp, excitedly bounding over to Eeyore and jumping up on the counter next to him. “Uncle Eeyore!” he chirps, wrapping his small arms around all he can reach of Eeyore.

“Hey, kid,” Eeyore greets, a small smile flitting across his lips as he ruffles Rue’s messy brown locks, not looking flustered in the slightest.

Lizzie watches as Darcy practically _melts_ into the floor as he watches Eeyore with Rue and she knows that he’s fucking _gone._ Darcy can’t handle men being sweet with children, and considering that he could barely handle Eeyore on his _best_ day, now that there’s a child being all adorable with Eeyore she knows that he’s _done_. TKO.

“Uncle Eeyore I made a new friend!” Rue says excitedly, pointing at Lizzie.

“Oh?” Eeyore practically drones.

Darcy looks like he wants to _die._

“Yeah she knows Mama!”

“Oh?” Eeyore asks, one eyebrow disappearing beneath his black fringe of hair and _Lord_ why does Darcy even _like_ his perfectly proportioned face with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass—Oh. “So you must be the Lizzie I’ve heard about.”

 Lizzie shoots Darcy A Look, the one that clearly says ‘ _what have you been saying about me’_ but Darcy just shrugs in confusion. “You have?” she asks. Next to her, Kanga has gone completely still. Lizzie isn’t even sure if she’s breathing.

Eeyore smirks at her, _smirks_ , before saying. “Oh, yes. Kanga has told me _so_ much about you.”

“Rue,” Kanga says, voice laced with panic. “Remember what I asked you to do while I’m working? Go, now darling.”

Rue nods and hops off the counter obediently, running into a backroom and disappearing from sight and, Lizzie hopes, sound too.

“Well, fuck me sideways with a stick,” she swears, and suddenly the room is too warm and Lizzie starts pulling Darcy away and toward the door because really, this is _too_ much for one day and they need to leave _now._ “I’m sorry, but I just remembered that Darcy and I have this really important _thing_ we need to do, right Darcy?”

“Uh,” Darcy hesitates, glancing between Lizzie’s steel grip on his arm and Eeyore’s gentle smirk. Lizzie tightens her hand, letting her fingernails dig into his arm through the starched fabric of his oxford shirt. “Yeah, that _thing.”_

“See you around, Darcy,” Eeyore says with a lazy twitch of his hand.

Lizzie returns his wave for both her and Darcy, shoving him bodily out the door, about to follow when a hand on her arm makes her pause.

“Stop by anytime, Lizzie,” Kanga says, a blush turning her cheeks a charming pink color and Lizzie swallows, nods, and escapes out the door which, okay, maybe makes her a coward, but her world has been turned around enough for one day.

“Holy shit,” Darcy breathes, once they’re five blocks away and speech is possible again.

“Yeah, holy shit.”

***

 _U kno, I can give her ur number if u want,_ Eeyore texts her, a week later.

_Yeah, okay._

***

It only takes Lizzie a month and far too much money spent on sub-par lattes at the Hundred-acre Wood to work up the nerve to actually ask Kanga out.

In a change of pace for her, Lizzie’s been taking it slow, trying not to pressure or rush because while she would have before, when the woman who gave you one of the best orgasms of your life in a dingy bathroom suddenly reappears in your life with a child, well, that changes things.  

So, she waits. Learns more about Kanga and Rue, about their simple, but happy life. Lizzie isn’t exactly sure what she’s waiting for, but she figures she’ll know the right moment to act when she sees it.

In the end, it isn’t coy glances, the gentle brush of hands as Kanga hands her a mug of coffee nearly every afternoon, or the soft, tinkling laughter she manages to coax from Kanga when she says something particularly clever.

Nor is it a moment.

No, in the end it’s Darcy’s downright _obnoxious_ gloating over the fact that he was able to get a boyfriend sooner than Lizzie could get a girlfriend, for once in his miserable existence, that pushes her to finally ask Kanga out.

She hates it when Darcy gets smug.

***

It’s nearing one in the morning and Lizzie is ready to curl up on her couch with that bottle of Merlot she’s been hiding from Darcy for a month when—in a surreal moment of déjà vu—Kanga sits down in front of her at the bar.

“What can I make for you?”

Kanga ponders for a moment, one side of her mouth quirking up in a smile. “I want something a bit wild at times, but not afraid of the quiet moments, something that’s fun and happy, but not afraid of committing, and if you could add a dash of sex-appeal to top it off that would be the perfect drink for me, I think.”

Lizzie is ninety percent sure Kanga isn’t talking about a drink.

She taps her index finger against her bottom lip in thought, not missing the way Kanga’s gaze lingers on her slightly parted lips. “I don’t think I have a drink like that…”

Kanga leans in closer. “Damn, I was really looking forward to seeing what it would taste like.”

Lizzie rests her hands against the bar and leans in a little closer, enough that she can see the swirls of caramel in Kanga’s brown eyes. “I think I might know a person, though, who fits that description.”

“Oh?” Kanga asks, brightening.

“Yeah,” Lizzie smirks. “She’s about 5’5”, wicked-ass haircut, great with kids, better at making cocktails, best in bed. You’d really hit it off, I think.”

Kanga hums in thought, smiling fully now. “You think she’s ready for a relationship?”

“I know she is.”

“Well then,” Kanga says, reaching out to tangle her fingers in the fall of Lizzie’s brown curls. “Looks like you do have that drink I want, after all.”

“Lucky me, then,” Lizzie says, just as Kanga kisses her, deep and full of promise and _needy_ —

 

In the end, Lizzie can’t remember the last time she was so wrong about a person, but she supposes that’s okay, because she couldn’t imagine anyone better for her than Kanga, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know anymore
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://mysoulrunswithwolves.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_xKikix)


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